Biocores: The Legendary Weapon Designer-Chapter 112: Settling in the Archipelagio

And with that, Nioh wheeled forward, Akrona at his side, X and Cryo following close behind.

His laughter echoed through the great hall—low, maniacal, and unforgettable.

The crowd remained frozen, locked in stunned silence long after his departure.

Minutes passed.

Then—

"Hahahahaha!"

Warden Cohen broke the stalemate, his voice loud and bitter. "The bastard is back."

He looked at Marsai, still drenched in blood.

"You were the first to feel the burn of his fury," he added with a grim smile.

Marsai, motionless for what seemed like an eternity, finally stirred. She wiped the blood from her face with a measured hand.

"Then you’d best be prepared when he comes for you," she said coldly, before turning to her attendants. "Order a funeral for these men. Let them be buried with the highest honors. Compensate their families. And send the bill to the prince’s quarters."

Her voice was composed—but her eyes were cold steel.

The silence gave way to murmurs.

Then to whispers.

Then to a rising tide of voices, heavy with awe and dread.

"He’s more terrifying than before..."

"I heard the Absolute Monarch was exactly like this once... That’s how he crushed all his brothers."

"The traditional and modern factions... we’re facing a real enemy this time."

"What happened to him over the past two years?"

"We need information. Where was he? Who trained him?"

"He’s at least a five-star Corebinder—at sixteen? Seventeen? That’s... inhuman."

"There’s no one in the new generation who can match him."

"That’s why he’s coming after the older generation..."

"Things are about to get very interesting in Daewyth again."

-

"This is the young master’s room," X said as he pushed open the heavy double doors, revealing the interior to Akrona, who followed closely behind with Nioh’s wheelchair.

The room was surprisingly modest. A clean, obsidian floor stretched beneath soft lighting embedded in the smooth, gray-stone ceiling. No extravagant ornaments decorated the walls—only a few old banners from forgotten campaigns, a lone sculpture of a serpent wrapped around a blade, and a single bookcase stocked with journals and tactical scrolls. A low bed sat in the center, its frame made of dark ironwood, its sheets crisp and neatly arranged. The air smelled faintly of burning sage and oil, an odd mixture of austerity and memory.

Akrona wheeled him inside, her steps light against the stone. "Your room is particularly modest," she commented, eyeing the space. "I expected something flashier. Or at least edgier."

There was no reply.

She stepped around to face him—and paused.

"He’s asleep," she said, surprised.

X nodded, gently closing the doors behind them. "He’s been on edge for hours. Didn’t blink once until you woke up. He must’ve been running on fumes."

"Help me get him onto the bed," Akrona said, voice softening.

Together, the two awkwardly shifted the unconscious prince onto the bed. Akrona took her time adjusting the sheets, brushing strands of hair from his forehead, and finally covering him with a thick, military-style kilt. He instinctively curled slightly inward as he settled deeper into sleep.

"This poor kid has suffered too much," X muttered, his gaze fixed on the boy he’d watched grow into something both greater and darker than expected.

"How long have you known him?" Akrona asked, her voice hushed.

"Three years. Maybe a little more." X leaned back against the wall. "He wasn’t always a prince. I found him during an entrance exam in some forgotten outer-city garrison. Backward place. But he stood out."

"Really?"

"Yeah. His natural talent was absurd. Especially his affinity with sound. That’s when I made the connection to the monarch’s bloodline. He didn’t even know it back then. I reported him, and the rest... well, it dragged him into all this."

He looked down, then added with a sigh, "Sometimes I wonder if I made a mistake. If I dragged him into a pit he should’ve never touched. He’s been shouldering the pain and expectations of so many people."

"If you know him that well," Akrona said quietly, "then you should also know this: if he wasn’t interested, there’s nothing you could’ve done to change his mind. He chose this path. He’s not one to follow blindly."

X looked at her, surprised. "How do you know that? I don’t think he told you the whole story."

"Well..." she said, brushing a hand along the edge of the bed. "Let’s just say—he never looked like someone who’d settle for anything less than the top. He was always aiming higher."

X smiled faintly. "Yeah. That sounds about right." He pushed off the wall. "Come on. Let me show you to your quarters."

"I’ll stay a little longer," Akrona replied without looking up.

X chuckled under his breath. "You younglings and your stubbornness." He turned and walked out, the doors shutting gently behind him.

The room fell into quiet again, save for the soft rhythm of Nioh’s breath.

Akrona sat by the bedside, eyes lingering on the boy who had conquered a Gyroshark at 15, shattered factions with a word, and yet still looked like a child when asleep.

--

Behind closed doors, Marsai was livid. The chamber shook with her fury—tables overturned, chairs splintered, shards of porcelain scattered across the floor like the remnants of her pride. Her breath came in ragged bursts, and her hands trembled with restrained violence.

She, Marsai of House Glev—the scion of old nobility, the Monarch’s right hand—had been humiliated.

By a brat.

From the slums.

With a disability.

It was unthinkable. Unforgivable.

She would never let it go.

A knock at the door broke the silence.

Knock. Knock.

"Come in," she said, voice low but composed, the storm beneath her skin still raging.

A uniformed officer entered and saluted. "Report!"

"Yes, Commander. We’ve traced the target’s reappearance to the Shoxa region. Additionally, the woman accompanying him appears to have ties to the Shurima Dynasty—intimate ties."

Marsai’s eyes narrowed. "Shurima? That’s... unexpected."

She turned, pacing slowly past the wreckage of the room. "Their traditions aren’t as vast as ours, but they are rigid. The Shurima court would never permit one of their nobles to wander abroad without purpose. This means she’s on assignment—or worse, on a mission."

The room fell silent as Marsai considered the implications.

"Reach out to our ambassadors in the Eastern Quadrants. I want everything they can gather on this girl—her status, lineage, and any signs of a political maneuver. And as for him..."

Her voice dropped, colder than before.

"Keep eyes on him at all times. Every step, every word, every whisper. I want to know what he eats for breakfast and what nightmares haunt his sleep."

"Yes, Commander," the officer responded before turning sharply and leaving the room.

Marsai stood alone again, her reflection distorted in the shattered glass at her feet.

"Let the brat have his moment," she whispered. "Sooner or later, even the brightest flames burn themselves out."